"
"He says he wouldn't--he would have been ashamed--three months ago; that
was why, when we were in New York, and he felt, even then--well (so he
says) all he feels now, he made up his mind not to persist, to let me
go. But just lately a change has taken place; his state of mind altered
completely, in the course of a week, in consequence of the letter that
editor wrote him about his contribution, and his paying for it right
off. It was a remarkably flattering letter. He says he believes in his
future now; he has before him a vision of distinction, of influence, and
of fortune, not great, perhaps, but sufficient to make life tolerable.
He doesn't think life is very delightful, in the nature of things; but
one of the best things a man can do with it is to get hold of some woman
(of course, she must please him very much, to make it worth while) whom
he may draw close to him."
"And couldn't he get hold of any one but you--among all the exposed
millions of our sex?" poor Olive groaned. "Why must he pick you out,
when everything he knew about you showed you to be, exactly, the very
last?"
"That's just what I have asked him, and he only remarks that there is no
reasoning about such things. He fell in love with me that first evening,
at Miss Birdseye's. So you see there was some ground for that mystic
apprehension of yours. It seems as if I pleased him more than any one."
Olive flung herself over on the couch, burying her face in the cushions,
which she tumbled in her despair, and moaning out that he didn't love
Verena, he never had loved her, it was only his hatred of their cause
that made him pretend it; he wanted to do that an injury, to do it the
worst he could think of.
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